


Boy

by linguamortua



Category: Dredd (2012)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugs, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Hair-pulling, Mommy Issues, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, This is a bad fanfiction, for bad people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7293784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Once upon a time, he had had a name. </i>
</p>
<p><i>He couldn’t remember what it was. It had been taken from him, along with his eyes, and now he was </i>Techie<i>. That was his function. That was what everyone called him. Except for <i>her</i>; she just called him—</i></p>
<p>
  <i>‘Boy.’ </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [K_dAzrael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/gifts).



> This is terrible. Don't read it. If you read it, don't complain to me about how terrible it is. I wish I could say I was sorry, but this is just who I am as a person. And anyway, Domhnall Gleeson suffers so very prettily, don't you agree?

Once upon a time, he had had a name. 

He couldn’t remember what it was. It had been taken from him, along with his eyes, and now he was _Techie_. That was his function. That was what everyone called him. Except for _her_ ; she just called him—

‘Boy.’ 

His ears pricked up and he swivelled his chair around, leaning out the alcove containing her personal computer terminal. She beckoned, a stained finger curling. He slid to his knees. The threadbare cream carpet came towards him very quickly and his eyes buzzed, refocusing. Itching. They always itched. He rubbed at them in his sleep and they never healed. It had been years. 

Or months. Months? Weeks? Sometimes he got confused, hazy. She gave him special pills for it, tucking them under his tongue with her own hands. They took a very long time to work. Time got strange. He clung to small things; his daily security checks, the warmth of his nest behind the server stacks. Times when Japhet would bring him treats. Making tiny copper trees, twisting the little branches into pleasing shapes.

He crawled across the floor, navigating through dirty laundry and shards of broken glass. Carefully, but not too slowly. She didn’t like it when he kept her waiting. For anything. He never knew what she wanted until he got to her. Sometimes he had to fix her personal wrist pad, or brush her hair, or feed her a vial of Slo-Mo. Today, he had been installing a new firewall on her terminal. That wasn’t the only thing. She was in a robe, pink and damp out the bath. His breath quickened. He made his way up the steps, up to the platform where she kept her bed and her guns. The uncarpeted edges of the stairs hurt his knees.

‘Come here, boy,’ she crooned to him. 

Her long, pale arm was hanging off the bed. The front of her robe - a dusty, faded pink - hung open so that a stretch of her thigh was on display. He was going to touch her. Nobody else was allowed to touch her. Even the guards who stood inside her bathroom while she bathed weren’t allowed to touch her. Not even to bring her a towel. His tongue flickered out to wet his lower lip. Being close to her was always exciting, but he had seen her flay a man alive for looking her up and down. Sometimes he was allowed to curl up by her chair; other times she said cruel things and hurt him. On any day, she might give him his special pills and stroke his hair, or leave him to shake and sweat in withdrawal and laugh at his shuddering, aching body. 

Today, she reached out with her languid arm and ran her short, dirty fingernails along the underside of his chin. He tipped his head up to look at her and his eyes vibrated and twitched. A light pressure on his lip; her thumb. His lips parted. Her eyes were large and dark and depthless. He waited, waited. She moved so slowly that he knew she was high. Eventually she took in a short breath and spoke on a long, long exhalation.

‘Take your clothes off,’ she said. He fumbled to comply. His t-shirt felt heavy and damp with sweat as he pulled it off, and his jeans got tangled up in his feet. He shoved everything away across the floor, hurrying. It was cold, now. She observed him lazily as he wriggled forward on his knees, eager, anxious. When she moved her arm he flinched: maybe it would be a slap and not a caress. 

A long, slow turn of her hand, wrist up, tattoos dark and blocky on her skin. Inviting. He hit his cue, leaned in, pressed his mouth to the tangle of blue veins that ran up the inside of her arm. A little further up. Further, to the crease of her elbow. She smelled like soap. Her curled fingers touched the tender skin of his throat and he froze for a moment.

‘Don’t stop.’ 

He had to kneel up to keep moving, pushing the wide pink sleeve of her robe up and up. Her left arm came over her body, careless and slow, and she took hold of his hair.

‘Come closer,’ she said, dreamily, and bared her blackened teeth. ‘There’s a good boy.’ Guided by her firm hand, he crawled up onto the bed. Placed his knees carefully, so as not to kneel on her robe. As the mattress shifted, the robe fell away from her right side, exposing her belly and ribs and the heavy swell of her breast. The whole white, vulnerable middle of her was open. His breath caught in his throat. He darted a guilty look down towards the door, where Tico was standing guard, eyes pointedly turned away. When he looked back to her, he could feel the hammer of his heart in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes.

She was _so_ —

So intensely real. So alive. The fixed point around which the confusing haze of his life rotated. She was smooth and curved and scarred and marked, and soft and sharp at the same time. For a moment, reality blurred and everything skidded sideways. He tried to blink away the strangeness, and shook his head, but her hand was tangled too tightly into his hair. She tugged on it sharply, bringing him back; he yelped.

‘Down.’ Her mouth shaped the word in an ‘o’ and he stared at it for a second. Then he slid down. Past the gentle curve of her belly and down. Her knuckles were hard on his scalp, pressing him lower. He was flat on his belly, wormlike, arms bunched up under his chest. His face was level with her thighs, which were splayed out a little. The sight of her cunt, dark red and open — the smell of it, salt and animal — made it hard to breathe. A moment of panic rippled through him. He’d slid so far down the bed that his feet hung off the end, bare and cold and exposed; he wanted to draw them back to the safety of the mattress. ‘Do it,’ she said, far above him, in her sleepy, heavy voice. ‘Be good.’

He whimpered. He had to get it right. He had to get it _right_. He wet his dry lips with his tongue and leaned in, pressing them to her. At the first taste, his mouth flooded with spit and his cock twitched tight against the mattress. Everything went hot, blindingly hot, for a moment. Her right thigh shifted away and she tipped her hips up to meet his mouth. Now he lapped at her, slowly and rhythmically. Just the tip of his tongue. No hands; that wasn’t allowed. The way she was holding his hair made his neck hurt, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop— at least, he didn’t think he did. 

His itching eyelids slid down over his eyes, and the sudden darkness was soothing. He tried not to think; just buried his face between her legs and tongued her clit. Felt her cunt pulse once, twice, eager. That made him rub himself on the bed sheets a little bit. He dared to move a hand down to cup his dick. She yanked his hair up and his eyes flew open to find her staring down at him. The scar on her face twisted her mouth into cruelty.

‘What are you doing?’ He lowered himself down onto his belly like a dog, abasing himself. Making himself small and unthreatening. It was uncomfortable to press his cock down like this, but he guiltily tried to hide it all the same. Her lips drew back from her teeth. ‘Did I say you could touch your tiny little prick?’ He tried to shake his head. She wound his long hair around her hand until his head was craned so far back that it was hard to breathe. _Sorry_. He made the word with his mouth but no sound came out. There was a tightness in his throat, welling up like blood. His eyes hurt, where his tear ducts used to be. 

Almost-crying, almost-sad, like a real boy. His shoulders shook with it. He swallowed back tiny, hurt noises. Making sounds that annoyed her was a good way to get a slap. Her fingers slid out of his hair and she looked at him consideringly, tilting her head to one side. Haloed with dark, fluffy hair, drying faster on one side than the other. He blinked at her, eyes buzzing.

Then she _did_ slap him, a resounding crack that whipped his head sideways. His eyes whirred and clicked frantically, trying to refocus. It stung. His whole face stung. He closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders down apologetically.

Then he was shoved back down again, to do his job. He couldn’t have been very good at it, because she corrected him roughly, jerking him around. A little to one side, a little firmer, a little lower or higher. He tried. He tried to make his tongue soft but firm. Licked at her with a steady rhythm, like when he was allowed to touch himself. She loosened, eventually, her hand less punishing and the muscles of her legs softer. The side of his face hurt, and his jaw ached horribly. He kept going, kept working.

She panted. That was a sign that he was doing well, and it excited him. Careful not to move too much, he angled his hips to take the pressure off his cock. She didn’t want to see him touch it, or rub himself off, or do anything that made her sheets wet. He was a dirty boy; he had to do that in private. Her breath rushed in his ears in quick gasps, and her thighs tensed up. One of her legs moved over him, pressing him deeper into the bed and into her cunt. He gulped her down, hardly able to breathe, air thick and heavy with her smell. 

‘Good boy,’ she slurred, and then she twisted and bucked and came in a rush, wet and salty down his chin. He licked it up, licked her through it, until she came to a shuddering rest. Her robe was all hooked up under one leg, her hands twisted in the grey bed sheets. For an illicit, exciting moment, he looked at the slick, pink insides of her, open and inviting, and imagined being allowed to kneel up and slide his prick into her. It would be all hot and enveloping around him, better than humping at his own hand. He shivered, and swallowed a high, excited noise. 

He froze; she was reaching down, propping herself up on one elbow with her robe slipping off down her arm. She took hold of his chin with her hard, mean fingers. Appraised him. He waited with bated breath, waited for the slap or the kick or the casual way she’d flick at his skin with her gutting knife. All at once she seemed to lose interest, and she pushed at him with her foot until he got the message and slid off the bed. 

The floor was hard and cold. His cock was hard, and it ached. He stared down at it, narrow and pink and crooked between his pale thighs. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tico shifting, bored and awkward. His eye showed the man in perfect, crisp detail, right down to Ma-Ma’s sigil on his thick neck. He wasn’t looking over at them, but knowing he was in the room was shameful. He looked away, hot with humiliation.

She sprawled on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Her mouth moved a little. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him, unfocused, uncaring.

‘Say thank you,’ she said, eyes drifting past him already. His mouth worked but no sound came out. That got her attention, more than words would have. ‘Say thank you,’ she said, hissing this time. Disobedience wasn’t an option. He tried harder.

‘’nk you,’ he managed, quietly, into the floor. She gave a breathless, happy laugh.

‘Why am I telling you to thank me?’

‘You,’ he began, in a tiny, inaudible mumble.

‘I gave you life,’ she said, fervent and terrible. The tattooed vine up her face writhed. ‘Didn’t I? You were worthless, and I saved you. I gave you life.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and then a little louder. ‘Yes, Ma. Thank you, Ma.’ He had to thank her. She was— it was important. She had given him his life; she gave him his special pills. But only if he was good. The wreckage on her nightstand rustled and rattled as she sifted through it for a pill bottle. He sat up on his knees and opened his mouth obediently. As she pushed the thin, round tabs under his tongue, she stroked his hair with the other hand. It felt nice on his scalp after all the pulling. 

The pills dissolved in a grainy, bitter mess. The world slid sideways and he forgot that he was cold. He struggled to stay upright. If he could have crawled back up onto the bed, he would have; for warmth, for touch. But he wasn’t allowed. He’d have cried, if his eyes could have produced tears any more. Above him, far, far above him, she sighed, bored. Her tattooed arm came over the edge of the bed and gestured for the door.

‘Off you go, boy,’ she said, dismissing him. That was his cue to leave immediately, before she got one of the men to drag him out. He turned around on his knees, and crawled, naked and dizzy, back towards the door. The taste of her still on his lips.


End file.
